Heritage for the Future
by Xengo
Summary: He was a rough looking boy. Maybe, he could become more than that.
1. Prologue One: Who Are You?

Don't worry, I plan on finishing The Shakedown soon.

This, on the other hand, is a small idea that has been rolling around in my head for a while. This is gonna be a long story. Updates will be sporadic at first, and I hope to get into a groove. Need to build up discipline and all that.

As always, read and review. And enjoy! God bless, and have a good day.

* * *

Prologue One: Who Are You?

He was a rough looking boy. Dirt in his fur, filthy clothes.

The boy was leaning against the brick wall of the ally way where he had chased off some ruffians to save the youth. And judging from that piercing and fiery gaze he had in his amber eyes, the youth was wholly ungrateful. He looked about sixteen, a young fox, with dirty blond fur. His arms were crossed, his jaw was set, and he was doing his best to look intimidating.

He was unimpressed. Nothing intimidated you when you were broken.

"Who the hell'er you?" the boy asked, his voice as rough as his appearance.

"Just a drifter," he mumbled, looking the boy dead in the eye.

"Well, I didn't need the help of no drifter to beat those punks! Why the hell-"

"You were outnumbered," he calmly interrupted. "And one of them pulled a knife. You would have been held down and stabbed. Repeatedly."

"Yeah, well!...well..." The boy was at a loss for words. His ears drooped, and he could see him begin to grind his teeth together. Frustration. Frustration at being wrong.

The boy yelled and kicked the wall as hard he could. He raised an eyebrow as the youth immediately regretted his decision, holding his foot in pain, but only for a few moments. He started to bang his fists into the wall, cursing as he did so. A temper tantrum. He supposed there was something pathetic about a young man having a tantrum, but he politely stayed quiet as the boy began to yell.

"Fucking damn it! This always happens! I always see how weak I am. I always see how far away I am...how far away...shit..."

He picked it up. The sound of sniffling. The boy was crying. And within his bosom he felt the faint feeling of sympathy well up, like a warm and pleasant scent drifting through a room. He was actually surprised that he was capable of this feeling.

He thought he had been successful in killing off his feelings this time. Seems he was wrong.

"Far away from what?" he asked, his voice low and methodical.

The youth stared at him, tears in his eyes partnered with a look of self-loathing. He sniffed once.

"Why do you care?" he asked, sounding miserable.

"Call it curiosity."

"Go to hell."

"Already there," he replied hollowly.

The youth looked back at him, surprised at his answer. At How utterly certain he sounded.

Sometimes, that scared him too. Not much anymore, though.

The youth looked down for a moment, swallowed, then looked up. "You have no idea what hell's like."

"I most certainly do."

There must have been something about how easy that reply slipped out of his mouth, because the youth exploded.

"How!? How could you possibly know!? I have nothing besides my dream. No parents, just myself and longing!" He slammed his fist down on his chest, the fiery look in his eyes growing by the second. "The only thing I want in this world, the one thing I want the most..."

"Is what?"

Now he was curious.

"...I want to go to space," the youth whispered, lowering his head.

He raised an eyebrow.

"That's it?"

With utter disbelief in his eyes, the youth stared at him for a full minute. Then he sneered at him.

"What...what the fuck do you mean, 'That's it'? Space is my one escape from this planet. From my life! I want to be a pilot, I want to be free! Surely there is nothing else like being out there, with nothing but endless space out in all directions!"

He bowed his head, feeling a wave of horrible memories wash over his mind.

"Space...will not save you from pain. It may only magnify it. Make it worse. Introduce you to new pain and suffering."

The youth stared at him, his determined look not wavering for a second. He shook his head.

"I don't care. Any place is better than this city. One day, I'm gonna be free. And whoever get's in my way is gonna have hell to pay." The boy started to walk away.

He didn't know why he grabbed the boy's arm before he could leave. Maybe would never know why. All he knew is that here...possibly...

He could do some good in the world. Without having to kill anyone. Without having to hurt anyone.

Without having to push anyone away, and ruin a life.

"What are you-" The youth began.

"How would you like me to take you into space?"

He almost laughed when the youth's eyes grew impossibly big and when his jaw dropped.

"What the hell do you mean?"

"I have a ship, and I can take you into space. Simple as that."

Still the youth looked on in disbelief. Though, he could see within his eyes arise the beautiful glimmer that was...hope.

How he had longed to see that again, in anybody's eyes.

"...don't fucking lie to me," the boy murmured dangerously.

"I'm not."

Slowly but surely, any traces of hostility vanished from the boy. Now he regarded him curiously, with the glimmer of hope becoming brighter.

"Why would you do this?" he whispered "What's the catch. Who are you?"

He sighed. His name. He had grown to hate it, out of loathing. Out of the memories it brought back. Out of the mistakes it was associated with. One mistake in particular.

"...Just call me 'F'." he said quietly.

"That sounds suspicious," the youth grumbled, taking his arm out of his grip. He crossed both of his arms again and leaned against the alleyway's brick wall, trying once again to look intimidating. Just like last time, it wasn't working.

"Do you want to go to space, or not?"

The youth blinked, and suddenly the glimmer in his eyes was back again. He wanted, oh so much, to believe. He could tell.

"..yes." he murmured. The boy's tone was low and reverent.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked, smiling a sad smile. He wanted the boy to trust him. He wanted...he wanted to help someone. Wanted to do something with the broken body and mind he now found himself with.

After a moment, the boy stated his name firmly, looking right into his eyes. Within those eyes the flames of hope sparked mightily, along with a determination that impressed even him.

"Marcus."


	2. Prologue Two: The One Called F

What's this? Another chapter so quickly?

I don't mean to be rude, but this is an exception to my rule about sporadic updates for this story at first. I had already begun this chapter once the first had been typed up.

And because people have been asking: in this story, this Marcus is not the son of the person you are thinking of. He's just an orphan somebody decided to pick up.

And don't worry, once the prologues are done, the chapter's will get longer. I'm setting the stage right now.

As always, read and review, and God bless. If you have any criticism, please write a review. Your input is valuable to me.

* * *

The One Called "F"

Marcus still did not know who his benefactor was.

He pondered this as he stared off into space through the viewport by the bridge of the ship that had been his home for the last months. A home the youth still could not quite believe was his home now. It all felt like a fairytale, going from a rough orphan on a rough planet with virtually no future to speak of, to a pilot-in-training on a mysterious vessel manned by a grand crew of two: his benefactor, the black-furred fox only known as F, and the ship's maintenance robot, R10.

F's disposition was easy to discern. Marcus called him a depressing figure, and he was convinced he was spot on. Everything F did oozed "depressing."

His benefactor was a quiet man. When F spoke, no words were wasted; everything that came out of his mouth was important. Whatever instruction was given, Marcus was expected to follow.

F always dressed dourly. Grey. Nothing but grey. A constant article of clothing was a large grey trench coat he wrapped around his shoulders, letting the sleeves hang to the side. His grey boots clacked against the ships floor in a slow, rhythmic fashion whenever he walked. Underneath the coat he wore what Marcus thought was the same grey dress shirt he wore multiple times, with matching slacks. Not a single other color to be found.

It reminded Marcus of a man at a funeral. He had never attended one, but he had seen some from afar.

There were also the small things Marcus saw. Small things that had at times scared him.

One was how he talked. He sounded subdued. Somber. As grey as the clothes he wore. Lifeless, even. There was little energy in his words. Every phrase, every word, was like something just above a whisper. Marcus would be lying if he said it didn't disturb him every once in a while. The only time this tone varied was when F decided to be sarcastic, or in the rare times he would crack a small smile and note some of Marcus' progress.

But the smiles would always look so sad.

Second, there was how he ate. And Marcus was sure he wasn't just seeing things, because this happened every time they ate. At least, every time they ate together. Whenever F brought food to his mouth, whether it be by hand, by fork or by spoon, there was always a sense of hesitation. He would stare at his food for a second or too, then he would eat.

That look seemed like...reluctance. Almost as if F was contemplating if eating was worth the effort.

But most of all, Marcus was shocked by his eyes.

They were dead.

There was not a single spark in those green eyes.

* * *

The funny thing was that Marcus had caught F behaving in odd ways sometimes. Ways so...out of character for him that Marcus couldn't help but notice. There were two mannerisms of his, in particular, that stood out to Marcus.

The first related to a specific date. March 23rd. For the last two years, on that date, F looked much more sullen and miserable than usual. His steps were heavy, his gaze weary and distant, and he rarely spoke. In fact, the first March 23rd Marcus had ever experienced had been positively unnerving to the youth; F had only spoken maybe twice in that day. In fact, he was so absent that R10 had taken over for his training, setting up the flight sims and such.

Marcus did not have the courage to ask F what was wrong, as much as that enraged him. Firstly, he hated being scared of anything. Secondly, Marcus was worried. F had practically saved his life and given him hope. As Marcus thought, only a major asshole wouldn't be at least a little worried at this point.

He had asked ROB. The dutiful robot only had one thing to say:

"Master F does not wish for me to disclose that kind of information."

"Damn tin can..." Marcus had muttered while walking away.

"Duly noted, young master Marcus."

For a robot, R10 could tap into some sass. It was one of things Marcus liked about the robot.

The other mannerism was something that Marcus had spotted at a rare moment; a time when F had not closed his door to his bedroom when he was there for some private time.

This mannerism involved a locket. Marcus was a ways away from the door, but he could tell that what F was gently stroking with his thumb as he held it in the palm of his paw, was a golden locket. A golden locket with something that immediately made Marcus very, very curious.

Marcus had dubbed her, "that blue vixen."

Blue fur, blue hair, and green eyes. Marcus was too far away to see any other detail. Of course, he had accidentally made a sound that had given him away, which led to F angrily shutting the door, so that had something to do with it as well. But Marcus was now very curious as to who that vixen was.

Moreover, what had made Marcus freeze as he walked away from the room was a sound that came from inside. Marcus wasn't one hundred percent sure, and it seemed so improbable, but he swore that that sound was the sound of a choked sob.

He had done enough crying himself to sleep to be pretty sure of what that sound was. It was just that, having never seen F cry, it was unnerving.

He asked R10 about the vixen to. Marcus was aggravated that he received essentially the same answer he had been given for asking about March 23rd.

"Master F does not wish for me to disclose that kind of information."

Was it just in Marcus' head, or could he hear the faintest trace of sadness coming from the friendly golden robot?

* * *

It was driving Marcus insane, not knowing anything about his benefactor. He didn't even know his name; nobody hate's their child enough to name them "F". What in the world could it be short for? Who was he? How did he come to own what looked like a small assault carrier and an advanced maintenance robot? How did he know so much about piloting? Was he an ex-soldier? A mercenary? Marcus didn't even know how he earned any money! In fact, all he had ever seen F do was coach him on piloting, drink, and stare at that locket.

If nothing else, he wanted to know his name so he could thank him. This man has saved his life. Given it hope. Nobody else had ever done such a thing for Marcus. Nobody had ever cared. And now this random stranger did all this seemingly on a whim. It was infuriating in a way.

Marcus sighed as he stared at the sea of stars he had spent a great deal of his boyhood dreaming about. Months. Many long months. With a man he knew virtually nothing about. Common sense told him he should regard the stranger as just that, a stranger. Benefactor or not, their relationship was not a deep one. In fact Marcus talked more with ROB than with F.

But...

F had given him a chance. Something no one else had given Marcus. That...that was special.

And for that reason, Marcus couldn't help but feel that F was the closest thing to a father he had ever known.


	3. Prologue Three: How Can You Fly?

And here we are, another piece of the prologue. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten this story, nor The Shakedown. I will be busy this summer, but I won't forget all this.

As always, read and review. Any criticisms you have are much appreciated. Thank you, and God bless.

And also, I made a few edits to previous chapters, that should line up with this chapter. I have a reason for all of them, don't worry.

* * *

Prologue 3: How can you fly?

"How confident are you, Marcus?"

That had been the first question F had asked Marcus once he had finished acclimating to the ship as his new home. It was a very direct question. Which made sense for F; he was a direct person. Marcus was actually caught off guard by it, but thankfully he was able to reply.

"Really confident, of course. I'm going to be the best pilot in the whole universe!"

F had snickered at that.

Reminiscing as he continued to stare out the window into space, Marcus was not sorry for that answer, no matter how childish F told him it was. It was the truth, after all. He was going to become the best. The more he thought of it as a fact, the more confident he became. Nothing was going to stop him from doing that. And if F wanted to be asshole about it, well, than he could take that. Marcus was no stranger to being laughed at.

Staring at the stars, Marcus thought back to his earlier days in training over the past months.

* * *

Training began the second day into his time on the ship. F had woken him up at an ungodly hour and told him to come with him. Marcus had moaned about how early it was, and in response F had simply shrugged and walked out. After swearing to himself a couple times, Marcus had rolled out of bed and ran after him.

F took him to his room, the captain's quarters. He asked Marcus if he knew how to read, and he said he did, a little bit. The orphanage he had run away from had taught him some as much as they could afford. F said that would slow him down, but he was willing to help when he could. R10 could pitch in too. And when Marcus voiced the question of why did it matter if he could read, F had pulled out two books from his personal library and had plopped them into Marcus's hands with all the pomp and circumstance of a teacher giving a student a failing grade.

Marcus could remember being…less than enthusiastic. Why the fuck did he have to read? And of course, F was more than happy to tell him that pilot hopefuls don't just hit the simulators on their first day out. If he wanted to fly, he needed to hit the books.

And hitting the books was hell at first. Marcus's reading abilities were put to the test. F was willing to help him whenever he could, as was R10. As a matter of fact, Marcus' friendship with the golden robot began this way; R10 was always willing to help him with reading if he ever needed assistance. And just the same, anytime Marcus was feeling inquisitive, R10 was willing to answer questions. The robot was a veritable fountain of knowledge on piloting information.

The first book was Piloting Basics: A Cursory Glance at Flying. The book did as it said; gave a basic look at piloting terms and vernacular. Altitude, turbulence, certain basic maneuvers...it was all there. Superficially all there, but there non-the-less. The second book was far more captivating:

The Basics of The Arwing All-Range Fighter.

Strange. He'd sworn he had heard of Arwings before...

As he read more, he became more determined. He wanted to finish the reading part as fast as he possibly could, so he pushed himself to the limit, sometimes pulling an all-nighter only to wake up to an un-amused F chastising him over poor sleeping habits. Still, he continued to read as much as he could manage.

A surprising thing happened. Marcus started to enjoy the reading. The book about the Arwing was a favorite of his. He loved the design of the craft, how sleek it was and how much of a long history it had. He was taken with the idea of the G-Diffuser, technology powerful enough to lessen the blow of G-forces so as to allow pilots to pull of much more breathtaking maneuvers than normal. Coupled with how versatile the craft was—with it being capable of adjusting the wings to suit a multitude of combat situations—Marcus quickly fell in love with the Arwing and was thirsty for knowledge about it.

But above all else, there was a name attached to the Arwing that made him curious.

Star Fox.

Just like the name "Arwing," Marcus swore he'd heard that name before. The city he had grown up in had plenty of gossip circulating around it. The name "Star Fox" had been spoken in hushed whispers, something about a mercenary group that had fought in previous wars in the Lylat System, a neighboring galaxy. Details had been somewhat scarce, but Marcus had heard the name "Fox McCloud" spoken every so often, the name of the team's apparently fearless leader. Other names, like "Lombardi" and "Hare" and "Toad" and "Krystal" were spoken of every once in while too.

However, Marcus was able to gather that the team had been inactive for some time. The reasons why were unknown. But what was known was that Star Fox had virtually disappeared.

The Basics book about Arwings even had a picture of the team. It was an old one though, from the looks of things. Fox looked young, and the three other pilots-a falcon, a hare, and a toad-looked around his age, with the exception of the hare looking significantly older. He assumed those other people were the Lombardi and Toad and Hare he had heard about.

But where was this Krystal? Must have been a newer member, he thought. After all, the pictures looked dated.

Marcus asked why he was learning so much about the Arwing in particular. F had answered that the flight sims they would be using used the Arwing as the base. He needed to learn about the fighter he would be piloting virtually.

After months of intensive reading through texts about piloting from various authors-F wanted him to see information coming from a variety of viewpoints-F began teaching him in person. This involved sitting down and having F drill him on the knowledge he had read about. Marcus complained about how hard self-teaching was at first, but F had said that if he didn't have the will to learn this stuff himself, he was not going to have the will to pilot.

Again, Marcus had swore. But he bit the bullet and endured.

Parts of the cockpit. Controls. Weapon systems. Maneuvers. All of it was being drilled into his brain. F tested him again and again, over and over. F was a relentless teacher. But he was fair. He noted Marcus' progress. He explained why what they were learning was important. Marcus could feel himself actually learning. Once it got to the point that he was thinking about this knowledge in his sleep, he knew he was hitting pay dirt.

* * *

There was something else besides the books, and that was the physical training. Marcus had understood this part quickly. Flying in space required one to be trained not only in the mind but also in body. The only way you were going to last through all the tight maneuvering was if your body could take it. Marcus considered himself to be strong back then, and thought that this part wouldn't be too hard.

Oh, what a dumbass he had been.

Pushups. Sit-ups. Jumping Jacks. Weights. F had put him through the wringer and Marcus had the aches and pains to prove it. More than once he had simply collapsed in pain from all the training, and F had been merciless in pushing him. There was no room for mercy. Either he could do it, or he couldn't. And for the longest time, Marcus' limit didn't let him push as far he needed too.

But oh, did he try. Pushing his body to obscene levels. Through every failure he got back up. Every screw-up, he gritted his teeth and spat out blood.

"Marcus, your greatest strength is your tenacity." was what F had told him one day. That single complement had carried the day for him. Continued to. He would never give up. He was going to realize his dream, and if it broke his body, than that was too bad, wasn't it? His body may not be ready, but his soul was.

Through the many months that followed, he kept in shape and amassed us much knowledge as he could. It could be painstaking work. But through it all the allure of space flight kept him going.

Someday...someday he would make it.

* * *

And then, finally, there they were. After his first year of nothing but drilling and testing, memorizing fighter maneuvers and learning the layout of a cockpit, he had made it.

It was time for flight sims.

F had a room specifically for them. Strangely he didn't just have one. There were four of them, colored silver and shaped just like the central, needle-shaped section of an Arwing. Where the windshield would be was the hatch to enter the simulator.

"Why four?" Marcus had asked.

"You will pilot the one on the right, in the first row," F had responded, ignoring his question. "I will fly with you, to guide you through the movements. The actual experience of piloting an Arwing is quite different than reading about it, you will find."

"Hey, you didn't answer my question." Marcus has replied, hotly.

F just raised an eyebrow, and turned his black furred face away without a word.

Why did he have to be so secretive?

Marcus would always remember climbing into that simulator cockpit for the first time. It was his first time sitting in the hot seat of any craft. As soon has his tail touched the cushioned seat, as soon as he sat back and stared at all the controls, he had shivered. He felt at home, at peace.

The cockpit closed, Marcus not acknowledging the motion.

"Star struck?"

Marcus had jumped. Looking around he saw that F's face had appeared by way of the video-communications system, his visage appearing on the left above his controls. He was smiling that sad smile of his.

"Yeah...I can't believe it."

"Well, get to believing it. I need you ready for this. I'm setting up the sim now. We will be flying in open space. I don't want you crashing into anything on the first go."

Marcus would have contested that, but F has shut of his transmission too quickly.

All at once the black screens in front of him that made up the "windows" of the cockpit turned blindingly white and changed to a view that had took Marcus's breath away.

Space. A sea of stars. Somehow it all looked more beautiful through the view of a cockpit. Even if it was all virtual.

"Amazing..." he had murmured.

That first flying experience had been an awkward one. It took a bit of time to get used to, but soon Marcus and F were flying lazily through the stars together. For this exercise, F had set up a series of silver rings for the both of them to fly through. Nothing too challenging, though Marcus had missed three. And F had disabled weapon systems, which miffed Marcus a bit; the five year old in him wanted to hear the "pew pew" of lasers in person.

"I don't want you blowing me up on accident." F had explained.

Subsequent runs had followed. They flew the same simple ring course multiple times until Marcus could ace the course time after time. After that came a course that required tighter maneuvers; He need to preform sharper turns and dives. That had taken a while. A whole month, in fact. And after that came obstacle courses in different environments; once they had tried a basic ring run on an asteroid field. Marcus would have that run live in infamy in his mind for the rest of his life, he knew. Three rings in, his attention had lapsed and he crashed into a space rock.

"See? This is why we take it slow. If this had been real, you would have died instantly." F had explained coldly.

Marcus had shivered and nodded. Even in the sims, death didn't good.

They had spent more months on those obstacle courses until Marcus could ace those too. And after his first crash, Marcus' will to complain had softened. F knew he was doing, and the more he listened, the better.

He still grumbled, though.

Soon, target practice came about, and Marcus wore the silliest of grins on his first run. Hearing lasers hitting targets was probably the most satisfying sound Marcus had ever heard. True to being a perfectionist, F pushed him to complete each run without missing a single target. Annoyingly, this proved harder than maneuvering runs; flying the Arwing AND focusing on targets required multitasking skills Marcus simply did not have at that point.

Still did not have. This was where they were, now. Targeting practice. After many months, he just now arrived at combat situations.

* * *

Pulling out of his memories, Marcus turned away from the viewport. The bridge was empty. R10 was going through his routine health checkup for F, after having already finished his. So far, none of them had been hit by anything worse than colds over the years. The only thing R10 cautioned him about regularly was pushing himself too hard. As R10 was his friend, he tried to follow that advice.

Key word being tried.

The sound of the bridge door being opened ripped Marcus from his thoughts. He looked and saw R10 and F stepping into the room.

And F was looking more tense and somber than usual.

Worry welled up in Marcus' heart.

"What's wrong?" Marcus asked, his voice betraying how nervous he was.

F didn't immediately answer. He stared at the floor, swallowed, and fixed Marcus in an empty gaze that scared the youth half to death.

"I'm dying, Marcus."


	4. Prologue Four: Can I make it whole?

Time for some political intrigue.

And with this, all the prologues are done. The stage is set, and Marcus will embark on a journey that bring him a wealth of experiences, good and bad.

As always, read and review! I'm always receptive of any criticism any of you might have. Good night, and God bless.

* * *

Can I Make It Whole?

The capital city of the formerly glorious Angler Empire was one of a multitude of settlements located in the expansive Venomean Sea. The city, called Lagun, was the largest of these settlements and also contained the rudimentary trappings of a capital city— largest population and the seat of government. Being an empire, this seat was the imperial palace; large and protected by hundreds of visible turbo lasers and guard towers, the palace sent a clear message to all those who might dare try to invade it: Try, and Die.

But Dash Bowman wasn't afraid. As a matter of fact he found the defensive display slightly pompous in the light of recent events. The Angler Empire had been struck down decisively, and more insultingly not by a large army but by mercenary group. Not just any mercenary group of course—Star Fox.

The team hadn't been seen since the end of the Angler Blitz. Dash had once idolized its leader, Fox McCloud. And even now after leaving the Cornerian Army, he still did, and couldn't find it in him to hold killing his grandfather against him. Andross had been a...complicated man, after all.

But all the same, here he was, sitting in the Angler Empire's specially designed Diplomacy Room. It was the only underwater structure the Angler's had built to accommodate those who lived above the sea. Some might say that this was the empire rolling out the red carpet for visitors with a specially designed facility. It was well furnished, after all—comfortable chairs, nice carpet, etc. But Dash knew this was the only Diplomacy Room in all the empire.

The message was clear. The Anglers wanted to keep to themselves.

"They are probably keeping us here on purpose, you know. Running late just to disturb us."

"Oh, please. I doubt even these fish brains here would be that petty. Although after their thrashing, perhaps..."

"I hope you will refrain from such language when we speak to the empress, Ayn." said Dash, sighing.

"Hmmph."

For what Dash was about to propose today, he had brought an entourage, a group of simians that he viewed as the right individuals for events to come. They were an interesting bunch. Even with their quirks, Dash had hopes that he could trust them. They all sat at a coral table, with four chairs empty across from them. On their side, four chairs full.

And of course, the company helped calm his nerves.

On Dash's left sat Ayn Recushia, A former intelligence officer with the Venomian resistance, the left over faction from Andross' war. According to intel Dash had found about her, she had been good at her job. Had loved it, even. And someone good with information was something that Dash needed for what he was planning. Also, Interrogation had been a specialty of hers, her file read. When Dash had pressed her for more about that, Ayn herself had simply said she had taken her job seriously. If she needed to be rough with interrogation, then that simply needed to happen.

On his right sat Camus Arwin, the quiet one of the group. His file had been straight and simple; he was an ace. One of the best pilots that had flown in the Venomian fleet. After his illustrious record setting career the High Command of the forces had given him his own ship. Dash did not need to ask for details about how good of a captain Camus had been; Camus' ship had been one of a handful of craft that had escaped from the complete slaughter of Venomeon forces that history called the Battle of Area 6. Perhaps the Star Fox team's finest hour.

On the far right sat the only figure Dash could say made him nervous.

Heiddeger Blizen.

The man's intel left out little when it came to his illustrious career with the rebellion. One of Andross' staunchest supporters, he was know for weapons development and research. Even more shocking was that he had even flown as a pilot with the forces for some time, and had even made a reputation as a respectable flyboy. Not on Camus level, but nothing to scoff at.

Heidegger was also the eldest of the four, including Dash. Dash was obviously the youngest, with Ayn next, and then Camus. Heidegger's age was readily apparent. He stooped slightly, his brown fur was graying, and his face showed the wrinkles of age. Dash was not fooled for a moment. Heidegger's eyes gleamed with a still burning intelligence untouched by father time and...something else. Something else that made Dash nervous.

Especially nervous, because he couldn't figure out what that something was.

"Either way, he's late. It's unprofessional," remarked Camus.

"It is. But I agree with Heidegger. They are most likely testing us," replied Dash.

"And my patience is thinning," added Ayn.

"And staying is what we will do. Mr. Bowman gathered us just for this. It would be rude to run off now, right, Mr. Bowman?" asked Heidegger, looking to Dash and smiling a seemingly innocuous smile.

Dash only nodded. Something about him...

His thoughts were interrupted when the door on the other side of the table opened. It seemed they had hit pay dirt, because the first people out were obviously heralds of the Imperial Crown, dressed gaudily in noble blue armor with gold markings around their "fish bowels" as they were called. Out came the guards, dressed a less brilliant blue. Of course, the guards were all armed with blaster rifles. Though Angler people were short in stature, and seemingly unimpressive, Dash knew better. The Angler Blitz had been an intense conflict, a testament to Angler military potential.

Once the Angler heralds and guards parted into two rows, Dash and his associates were greeted with a view of the Angler leader, their new empress.

Minerva E. Angler II. Daughter of the previous king, and if her stolid visage was any indication, not at all amused at this situation. As was per the female kind of her people, she stood taller than her male heralds and guards. Her armor was bright gold trimmed with noble blue, and an equally blue cloak was wrapped around her shoulders. Dash had to admit— the empress knew how to make an appearance.

She stepped slowly, as if to intimidate the lot of them. She sat at the regal-looking chair directly across from Dash, and her ministers followed behind her, sitting on the two seats at her side. Guards were standing at either side of her, ready to kill the simians should anyone of them even twitch in a disagreeable way. Minerva folded her fins in front of her, the light from above giving the imperial crown a top her glass bowel a sheen. For a minute there was nothing by silence. Dash, and thankfully everyone else, knew better than to speak first.

"I know of you, Dash Bowman," spoke the empress, her tone as imperious as her station. She raised her gaze as to look down at them even more, considering her height, her frown dipping lower. "I know that you fought against our forces in the war, and I know that you are related to a certain madman who shall remain unnamed. Please, give me a reason why I shouldn't have my associates here kill you and your little friends."

"I have a proposition. Something that can help the both of us, I assure you." Dash answered as calmly as he could manage, trying to ignore the tense atmosphere in the room. He was surprised none of his entourage had blown up over that comment about Andross.

"Really. For our mutual benefit? When have the Simians and Anglers EVER had a proposition to benefit the both of our kinds? As I remember, we have always been antagonistic at worst, and passive aggressive at best. Again, please give me a reason to throw away historical precedent."

Dash couldn't help but smile inwardly. Her Highness was politically savvy. Definitely the kind of person her people needed.

Methodically, Dash lifted the silver brief case he had took with him onto the table. He opened it, and turned it towards Her Highness so she could see. If the slight widening of her royal eyes was any indication, Dash had gotten somewhere.

"Credits?" she replied. "Bowman, if you think you can bribe me, then I really should kill the whole lot of you."

"It's a gift, a gift to build up your nation and forces again."

Now that caught her attention.

"...explain." Her Highness demanded.

"Being in Andross' family, I received access to his fortune recently. Needless to say, he was very busy man, and made much money with his research. What I have given you is only a drop in the bucket. I want you to build up your forces again, and I will build up the Venomean Remnent. Plenty of Simians on Venom still believe in what Andross tried to do." spoke Dash

"Andross was insane, Bowman. And his war with Lylat cost him the reputation of his Simian brothers and sisters. I am surprised people still hold him in esteem." replied Her Highness.

"He was...yes, I will admit, the power got to him. But I am not him. I have Venom's interests at heart," began Dash, pointing to himself and giving the Angler Empress a determined look. "There is a stigma towards Venom and her people, Your Highness. We both know that. If not outright racism, then a dark sort of prejudice. We both wish to end that. I want Venom to be strong again. I want her respected. The only way to do that is to make her strong, and bring our people together. So to do this...I propose to rebuild the planet together. I will do what my grandfather failed to do."

Dash saw Her Highness examine him for a moment, squinting her eyes. Then she looked at the people he had brought with him.

"And who are they?"

"Your Highness, allow me to introduce Heidegger Blizen, Ayn Recushia, and Camus Arwin. They are the people I have chosen to lead reconstruction efforts on this planet. All of them have military experience with leading, and I believe they shall do well at their jobs."

Once again Her Highness gave them all a cursory glance. Dash couldn't remember a time where he had received such a blazingly intense look in his life.

"...Ever since the loss of the last war, my people have had to wallow in pity and disheartedness. When I took the throne, I knew my job was going to be hard. And what's more, I expected no one to help me. My father had taught me that the only ones who look after Anglers...are Anglers themselves." began her highness.

"And now you bring this to me. A proposition to build up both of our civilizations again. For a mutual benefit. It all seems far too good to be true."

Dash did not respond.

"...you realize, of course, that should you be duplicitous, I will have all your head's, correct? In a very timely fashion."

Dash's spirits rose. "You mean, you will agree?"

Slowly, Her Highness nodded. "I will make sure to keep a close eye on all of you. I don't trust you completely, but as the empress I must have my people in mind. Which is why I will agree tentatively. You are all dismissed. I shall see you in the future."

And with that, Her Highness and her people departed, leaving Dash and his fellow Simians alone.

"Mr. Bowman, remind me to always compliment you on your diplomacy." remarked Heidegger, turning towards him.

Dash nodded. "I know both of our people need help. Hence the reason why I am here."

"Admirable." remarked Camus. Dash turned to him and smiled. That sounded like genuine praise. Coming from someone like Camus, that was something special.

"Now that we are finished here," began Ayn, rising out of her chair and beginning to walk towards the elevator that would take them back to the surface, "we should start planning in earnest."

Dash agreed, and all four of them began to walk. Dash noticed Ayn had hurried ahead to be closer to Heidegger.

Curious.

Camus, on the other hand, simply hung back, staring at the two in front carefully, and then looking over to Dash.

The only thing Dash could think as they rode up the elevator back to surface t was how relieved he was that his plans were finally coming together. Maybe, just maybe, he could make Venom whole.


End file.
